


A Melody in My Head (That I Can't Keep Out)

by mmaree



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 12 Days of Christmas, Awkward Flirting, Banter, Christmas Caroling, Christmas Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Holidays, Louis-centric, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 06:59:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8964490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mmaree/pseuds/mmaree
Summary: written for the prompt:“Louis has no Christmas spirit, but a certain curly-haired Christmas caroler that Louis keeps running into around London may just change his mind.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [musketrois (B_kate)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_kate/gifts).



> Title is from "Replay" by Iyaz. Enjoy! :)

As he’s trapped in a never-ending queue at M&S, Louis can’t help but think that whoever wrote “The Twelve Days of Christmas” was a fucking tosser who deserved to be strangled by a set of Christmas lights and strung up on the giant Christmas tree in the middle of Trafalgar Square.

It’s not that Louis particularly hates Christmas--he doesn’t.  Well, he tolerates it at any rate.  Christmas is annoying; it interrupts his daily routine.  But Christmas _Eve_ is even worse.  It had the audacity to show up year after year on his birthday, halving the number of presents he’d receive despite his family’s assurances to the contrary. 

And if there’s anything Louis hates, it’s getting cheated.  Well, that and “The Twelve [bloody] Days of [bloody] Christmas.” 

He moves forward two-and-a-half centimetres and contemplates that maybe he’s being a wee bit harsh on the songwriter.  After all, Louis pens tunes himself.  Besides, it’s not the poor sod’s fault that his crap song ended up going viral--not completely anyway.  Louis would settle for a lesser sentence for the culprit--maybe lightly tortured or maimed.  Pelted by a collection of turtle doves, geese, swans, and partridges, perhaps.  It isn’t sufficient punishment for such a drastic offence to humanity, but Louis has a heart.

By the time he reaches the till and the song reaches “eleven pipers piping” though, Louis yearns to tell said pipers to piss off.  He has reached his daily limit on acceptable spins for the track.  Actually, he’d hit his limit the first time he heard the cursed tune today while shopping at Selfridges.  Then, it played again at Debenhams, Liberty, Hamleys, and now here.  It’s like a plague following him, and he nearly forgets to collect his change before he’s running out of the shop and back on to Oxford Street.

He breathes a sigh of relief when he exits because he’s finally fucking _done--_ well, for today, at any rate.  He doesn’t like Christmas shopping on the best of days, but today isn’t the best of days.  Not even close.  It’s freezing, the pavements are teeming with tourists who don’t know their arse from their elbow, and he’s not sure how he’s going to manage the tube carrying this many bags.  He’s knackered and his arms are beginning to feel like jelly with all the toys he bought for the twins.

But at least he doesn’t have to listen to that irritating as fuck song anymore.  There’s that.

As he nears Oxford Circus, however, it seems the universe isn’t done fucking with him.  Really, there’s no other explanation because a scraggly group of carollers stand around the entrance to the tube station, belting out “The T***** D*** of C********” like there’s no tomorrow.  And there might not be for Louis because he’s got half a mind to run in front of a bus right now just to avoid another repetition of “five golden rings.” 

He dismisses the tempting thought, throwing his bags over his shoulder and jogging past the carollers.  He catches the eye of one as he passes by, a tall kid with a green elf’s hat that matches the colour of his eyes.  He shoots Louis a dopey smile, and Louis’ heart flutters momentarily as he stares back at him, wondering if the smile was actually meant for him or not. 

He doesn’t have too much time to dwell on this, however, as he’s jolted from behind and the contents of his shopping bags spill onto the pavement.  “Watch where you’re going, mate!” a stocky man wearing a West Ham scarf shouts as he pushes past Louis.  Of course he’s a West Ham supporter, fucking wanker.

“Happy Christmas, asshole,” Louis snaps back, mumbling curses under his breath as he gets himself sorted.  When he looks up, he sees that the caroller is no longer eying him and that’s fine.  The quartet has progressed on to another carol, and that’s more than fine.  With a sigh, he hurries down the steps to the Tube station and makes a promise to himself to start his Christmas shopping earlier next year. 

In reality, he isn’t being too much of a slacker.  There have been past years where he started shopping even later, despite the fact that he’s got twenty-seven younger siblings. 

It’s then that he makes a sudden cruel realisation:  it’s exactly twelve days before Christmas.  Twelve fucking days. 

No wonder the universe is conspiring against him.

 

 

He’s just put everything away in his spare wardrobe and is sat down, tinkering away at his keyboard when he hears it.

_“On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me….”_

It’s _loud_ , and it’s seeping in with the cold from the window, the dodgy window that the landlord has promised to fix since he moved in six months ago. 

But then he has a brainstorm.  He doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it earlier because it’s fucking brilliant.  He kicks on a pair of trainers and runs down the stairs in just his joggers and an old jumper.  When he reaches the quartet of carollers, he shoves a wadded-up note at the kid he saw earlier, the one with the dopey smile. 

“Twenty quid if you lot stop singing that shite.”

It works.  Maybe it’s just the fact that they’re surprised by Louis’ request but Louis isn’t one to bother about reasons when he gets what he wants.  They’ve stopped singing, and that’s enough for him.  He’s stuffing the note in the gloved hand and turning on his heel when an Irish accent cuts through the bitterly cold night:

“Oi, what you got against our singing, mate?”

Louis turns and sighs.  He should’ve known this wouldn’t be as easy as it first seemed.  “Nothing at all.  I’d just like some peace and quiet while I work, that’s all.”  He holds his hands up in mock surrender, and the blonde punter who spoke also backs down. 

“No, it’s fine,” the tall elf assures him in a raspy baritone.  “We were just finishing up anyway.”

Louis does his best to collect himself.  Fuck, the elf wasn’t supposed to sound like _that._   “Sorry, it’s not you--it’s that bloody song.  Can’t stand it.  I swear to God Almighty that is the single worst song in the English language.”

“Actually,” the elf says contemplatively, “the lyrics are originally French, I think.”

Of course they were.  He would expect nothing less from the French. 

“Well, we’d better get going then,” the blonde says, giving the tall kid a strange look. 

The Irishman’s words bring out a curious panic in Louis’ chest for some reason.  “Oh, I was just going to ask you all if you fancied a cuppa,” he rushes out, eyes locked firmly with the boy in green now. 

“That sounds lovely,” the big friendly elf answers.  His cheeks are rosy and Louis wonders if it’s from the cold.  They didn’t look that flushed a minute ago.  He’s sure of it.

Someone snorts.  “Have fun, Harry.  Give us a ring if this bloke turns out to be a psycho who invites random carollers to his flat and handcuffs them to the bed or summat.”

Louis doesn’t trust himself to say anything so he doesn’t, just lets Harry and his mates continue their banter before saying goodbye.  Besides, Louis’ too busy getting the image of the oversized elf handcuffed to his bed out of his head.  

He wonders if he’s going to need therapy after today.  He wouldn’t doubt it.

 

 

 

“This your flat then?” Harry inquires as he literally trips in even after Louis told him to ‘mind the step.’

“You’ve got a knack for stating the obvious--don’t you, Harry?”

Harry doesn’t respond at first, just glances at the cerulean walls gleaming with eggshell finish, the modge podge of mismatched furniture, and the musical equipment shoved in one corner.  “Well then, how about that tea you promised?” Harry reminds him, a twinkle in his verdant eyes.  “And you never told me your name by the way.”

“Louis,” he supplies, rubbing the back of his neck.  “You can make yourself comfortable; I’ll, uh, just be a few minutes, yeah?”  He turns on his heel and trots down the half-flight of stairs to the lower level.  It’s not so much a lower level as a lower room really.  Liam jokes that it’s the smallest proper kitchen in all of London, and he may be right.  It’s got all the fittings though so Louis can’t complain.  Moreover, he likes the mad floorplan because it doesn’t feel like he’s living in halls anymore.  It’s unique, and it’s got character--just like him.

Louis takes his time making the tea.  He carefully lays everything out--teapot, tea ball, spoons, cow creamer, sugar bowl, a sleeve of ginger biscuits, and the tin of Christmas tea he’d picked up that afternoon--before putting the kettle on the boil.  If he were anyone else, he’d say he was stalling, that nerves might be getting the best of him.  He might be questioning what the fuck his motivation was for inviting a total stranger to his flat, someone as ridiculous as the jolly elf-boy upstairs.

But he doesn’t rethink anything because he’s Louis Tomlinson.  He just finishes the tea and brings everything up on a tray like it’s some kind of bed and breakfast he’s running.  It’s the most un-laddish thing he’s ever done, but luckily none of his mates are present to take the piss.

When he gets to the top of the stairs, he almost spills the heavy tray because he can’t believe what he’s seeing.  “The window’s shut,” Louis declares, dumbstruck. 

Harry scratches his head.  “Um, yeah, sorry?  Figured you wouldn’t mind if I closed it because it’s a bit nippy in here, isn’t it?”  He smiles that dopey smile and Louis’ heart does that _thing_ again. 

Louis carefully sets the tea tray down on the coffee table before a minor catastrophe occurs and settles down on the loveseat next to Harry.  “No, it’s just that…I haven’t been able to shut the bloody thing since July.”

Harry flexes his biceps in a masculine way that’s totally at odds with the daft, elf-inspired ensemble he’s got going on.  “Happy to be of service then,” he laughs, not taking himself too seriously.  Louis would find it incredibly endearing if he gave it a second thought--which he isn’t going to do of course.

“I, um…yeah, cheers,” he manages to say, wiping his sweaty palms on the front of his joggers.  He hopes Harry doesn’t see.

Harry doesn’t.  He’s too busy pouring the tea for them.  The strong aroma of cinnamon and clove fill the air.  Harry breathes it in like it’s his favourite scent--it probably is.  It smells like…well, Christmas.  Harry fixes his cup while scanning the small living area.  “You don’t have a tree,” he observes dopily.

“Captain Obvious strikes again.”

Harry doesn’t seem to hear him.  “That’s so….”  His voice trails off and Louis wants to nudge the boy hard to get him to spit it out already.  Honestly, he probably would if he thought it would help.  “…Sad,” Harry finishes at last.  “You don’t have any holiday decorations up at all.  Do you not celebrate Christmas or something?  It looked like you were doing some shopping earlier so--”

“No, I do,” Louis cuts him off irritably, running a hand through his hair.  It’s a right mess and wants cutting in the worst way.  “I’m just not that…into it, okay?  I don’t like all the fuss,” he grumbles, slouching down further.  He’s really starting to regret the mad impulse he had when he decided to invite this boy up.  It was a crap idea, his worst in ages--and that was saying something.

“Hey, you wanna check out mine?” Harry asks out of the blue, face lighting up.

Louis swallows.  “Uh…check out your what?”

“My tree, of course!” Harry giggles like a big kid.

“Well, sure.  I mean, if that’s your best offer and all….”

Harry’s already flicking through images on his phone though, excited as a kid on…well, Christmas morning.  Finally, he gets to the one he’s after and displays it to Louis like he’s a proud dad showing off pics of his new-born baby or something.  Again, Louis can’t help but feel it’s incredibly, disgustingly endearing.

He preparing to compliment and coo over Harry’s tree, but when he catches a glimpse of it, he can’t do it.  It’s worse than he imagined.  God-awful, in fact.  A proper eye-sore if he’s ever seen one.  Louis nearly has to shield his eyes from the gaudy brightness.

“Bloody hell, Harry.  It looks like you vomited garland all over it.”

“I know--isn’t it ace?”  Harry’s fucking _glowing_ and dimples are popping out everywhere and Louis really can’t take it anymore.  He needs this kid to shove off because they obviously are complete opposites.  He knows this isn’t going anywhere even if his dick thinks otherwise every time Harry speaks, or scoots closer, or wets his lips, or smiles that stupid dopey--

“You should probably be getting home,” Louis suggests, his voice registering an octave higher than normal for some reason.  “It’s late, yeah?”

“Oh, okay,” Harry mumbles sadly, and Louis feels like a sorry excuse for a human being.  “Mind if I, um, finish my tea?”

Louis shakes his head and picks up his neglected cup, practically inhaling it now that it’s cooled down.  He doesn’t dare glance at the curly-headed stranger next to him as the kid gulps down the rest of his own tea.  He doesn’t want to stare at the way the boy’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down with every swallow.  Yeah, Louis may have noticed it earlier, but he’s not going to dwell on how tiny the teacup looks in Harry’s massive hands.  He’s definitely not going to get hung up on how--

_Fuck._

_Fuck, fuck, double fuck._

“You done?” Louis croaks out, jumping to his feet and trying to ignore the jittery sensation that’s come over him.  He isn’t used to feeling this way, and he doesn’t like it.  Doesn’t like it one bloody bit.

Harry thanks him softly and traipses to the door.  He shakes Louis’ hand once there because of course he does. 

They stand there for ages, clasping hands as electricity ignites the small space.  It’s the first time they’ve touched, and it’s innocent enough but it’s also skin on skin.  It’s contact.  It’s what Louis’ been craving all along, and once it happens it’s like a spark to a flame.

Then, Louis yanks the taller boy into him for a desperate, heated snog because of course he does. 

 

 

“Morning, Tommo!” Liam greets him in a silvery tone when Louis answers the phone.  “Rise and shine!”

It’s half eight but Louis feels like it’s much earlier than that.  He silently curses Liam and his ability to function like a normal human being--and without caffeine to top it off--before eleven.  “Why are you torturing me this early, Payno?  Have you no heart?”

Liam chuckles and Louis can hear the clinking of metal in the background.  He’s probably fixing breakfast and something in Louis’ stomach stirs when he remembers how he didn’t eat dinner last night.

“You should be thanking me, mate.  You have that meeting in the City at half ten, I believe, and you asked me to give you a wake-up call--or did you forget?”

“Shit.  Cheers, bro.”  The appointment had totally slipped his mind.  He bolts up in bed and rubs his eyes before checking the clock again.  He still has a couple of hours, but he needs to start waking up now.  He doesn’t want to be late for this.  It might be a massive opportunity. 

“So what’d you get up to last night?” Liam cross-examines him.  “You ignored all my calls so you better have a damn good reason, mate.  Just saying.”

“Not much,” Louis yawns.  “Shagged a caroller; that’s about it really.”

“Yeah, and I blew a department store Santa,” Liam snorts.  “Now what did you really do?”

Louis rolls his eyes.  He should have expected his best mate to react this way.  “Payno, I’m being serious.”

“Bollocks.”

“Fine, you’re halfway right,” Louis admits, wrapping himself in the duvet as he sits on the edge of his bed.  “I didn’t actually shag him--but I wanted to.”

“So you’re telling me you actually tried to pull a caroller?” 

Louis sighs impatiently.  “Yeah, thought we covered that already.”

“Shit, Tommo,” Liam curses.  “Didn’t realise you had a thing for Christmas carollers.  Was he dressed up like those Dickens’ carollers you always see around or…?”

“No, he was wearing an elf costume--well sort of.”

“Dude, I didn’t know you were into weird kinks like that.”  There’s a bizarre admiration in Liam’s tone, and Louis’ afraid to delve deeper into that line of conversation. 

He grunts in frustration.  “Stay with me here, Payno.”

“I’m trying but you’re shit at telling stories, Tommo.  Just saying.”

Louis somehow bites back a snarky comment.  “So as I was saying, they were singing in front of me flat and--”

“ _They_?” Liam echoes in disbelief.  “How many carollers did you shag then?”

“Just the one,” Louis straightens him out.  “Anyway, he kept popping up everywhere and--”

“Was he stalking you?”

“No, I mean, I don’t think so,” Louis stumbles out.  It’s too early to be having this conversation, but he supposes it can’t be helped.  He stands up, hoping the change in position will help him clear his head.  “ _No_ ,” he reaffirms after a moment of thought, “I just saw him at Oxford Circus and then outside my flat.  It was just a coincidence, like.”

“Coincidence or fate, bro?”

Louis can practically hear Liam waggling his thick eyebrows at him.  “Listen, he’s not, like, my type at all.  That’s the problem.”

“So he ain’t a complete prick then?” Liam asks smugly.  “That what you’re saying?”

“Piss off.”

Liam belly-laughs this time.  “Come on.  It’s true, and you know it.” 

Louis doesn’t respond because Liam’s basically right.  Okay, he’s completely right.  Louis had a bad pattern of finding himself in relationships with assholes for a few months (years).  In his defence, it gave Louis ample material for his songwriting (when he wasn’t penning mindless jingles for advertisements, that is).  Liam didn’t quite get that perspective, didn’t quite grasp how Louis’ tragic dating past was basically equivalent to research.  Research and inspiration.

That’s how Louis preferred to think about it at least.

“So what happened?” Liam pressed.

“Well, I went down to ask them to sing somewhere else and somehow I ended up inviting Harry up for a cuppa, you know?”

“Oh, completely,” Liam snickers.  “Same bloody thing happens to me all the time, mate.  Sometimes, my flat’s just crowded with carollers and street buskers.  It’s a right pain.”

“Stuff it,” Louis grumps, opening his bedroom door.  His gaze immediately settles on the window that Harry fixed yesterday, and it stirs something fond in his breast.  It’s hard to ignore, but he tries anyway.  “You’re a shit friend, you know that?”

“Sorry, bro,” Liam apologises and Louis can tell he means it.  “Go on.”

“Well, he was like a fucking teddy bear.  He kept talking drivel about holiday spirit and all that gobshite, and just as I was about to kick him out, I bloody kissed him.”

“And then what happened?”

“Nothing.  He left.”

“You didn’t ask for his number or anything?”  His friend doesn’t seem to be able to accept this.  Louis’ can’t blame him, to be honest.  Louis was having a hard time with it, and he was there, for fuck’s sake.  

“Didn’t think about getting his digits or whatever,” Louis acknowledges.  “It’s hard to describe, but I haven’t been able to think straight since I met him.”

“I see.  So what were you planning to do about it then?  You’ve obviously got a thing for this kid, no?”

“Nothing I can do, is there?” Louis whinges, the full weight of the situation just beginning to sink in. 

“Well, at least he knows where you live, right?” Liam offers encouragingly.

“Yeah, but he probably thinks I can’t stand him,” Louis moans, falling in a heap on the loveseat.  “I was kind of rude and basically kicked him out.  I didn’t even say anything after I snogged him--don’t think I did anyway.”

“ _Louis!_ ”

“I know; couldn’t help it really,” Louis concedes with a helpless groan.  “You don’t know how muddled I felt though--especially after the kiss.  Still haven’t recovered fully.” 

There’s complete silence following his admission, and Louis begins to question if the call dropped until Liam clears his throat.  “Well, if it’s meant to be, you’ll see him again,” Liam says decisively like it’s an answer to all of Louis’ problems.

It isn’t though.  It isn’t because Louis’ just now figured out he’s fucked up.  He’s fucked up royally.

 

 

Ten days before Christmas, Louis buys a tree.  It’s a small one, only three feet tall, but Louis thinks it’s enough.  He doesn’t want to go overboard.  He also buys a few boxes of ornaments, but he doesn’t put them up. 

The next day, Louis goes out shopping.  He walks all around Soho but sees neither hide nor tail of the attractive caroller--not that he was looking.

A week before Christmas, Louis attempts to hang up the ornaments, but they don’t look right.  He hasn’t got an eye for this type of thing or maybe he’s too critical.  Then he realises he’s missing lights so he takes them off again.

He purchases a string of lights the next morning and puts it on his tree that afternoon. 

Five days before Christmas, he spends the entire day working.  Every time he looks up and out the window though, he gets distracted.  He is reminded of how there’s no longer a draft in the room and who fixed it.  Each time, it takes him longer to get back to work.

On a whim, he buys a wreath the following day and hangs it on his door.  It falls off twice so Louis settles for hanging it on his mantle.  It looks good there.

A few days before Christmas, he finds himself with songwriter’s block.  He decides to take a long stroll to clear his head.  He’s not sure how he ends up at Oxford Circus, but he does. 

He doesn’t see any carollers.

Not that he was looking.

The day before Christmas Eve, he goes out with his mates for an early birthday piss-up.  Liam doesn’t mention anything about a certain curly-haired caroller.  He doesn’t slag Louis for being a first-class idiot either.  He just gives him a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder every time Louis forgets that he’s supposed to be enjoying himself. 

When Christmas Eve arrives, Louis wakes up in a panic.  It’s not only because he is officially one year older today, but he’s also just remembered that he’s forgotten to buy his little cousin a present.  He’ll be seeing him tomorrow so there’s no way of getting around it.  He has to find something fast.  An hour later, he’s back in Soho, looking to rectify his oversight before the shops close early for the holiday.

He’s rushing down Regent Street, Hamleys bag flung over one shoulder, when he spots him:  _Harry._   He’s dressed much the same, looking as ridiculous as last time in an elf hat, pointed gold boots, striped scarf, and green pea coat.  His nose and cheeks are ruddy-coloured and Louis wonders how long he and the other three boys have been at it today.  The kid’s clearly half-frozen, shivering and singing through chattering teeth.  Louis wants to take him somewhere warm, wants to press his warm lips against Harry’s chapped ones and--

Harry stops singing when he meets Louis’ gaze.  He’s sporting an unreadable expression and Louis isn’t sure whether he should stop to say hello or plough right past him.

“Alright, let’s take five, lads,” the blonde says when he takes notice.  Louis still doesn’t know the kid’s name even though he probably should by this point--not that it matters, honestly.  It’s not like he’ll ever see him again.  Louis wishes he didn’t even know Harry’s name at this point.  He’s going to try to forget it, in fact.  As soon as he leaves here, he’s going to erase the entire sequence of events from his thick head.

“So Scrooge is out shopping again?” Harry taunts as Louis edges closer.  Now, he’s wishing he would’ve followed his first instinct and kept walking.  It’s too late now.

“And elf-boy is carolling again?” Louis returns.  He isn’t about to show how bothered he is by Harry’s greeting.  He absolutely isn’t.  “Don’t you have a real job, mate?”

Harry hitches his brow.  “Don’t you?”

“Touché.” 

And then it’s if the tension breaks between them and a truce-of-sorts is called.  Harry blinks shyly, looking down at the pavement through long, full lashes.  “It’s good to see you again…I wasn’t sure if you’d stop.  I mean, I wasn’t sure what to expect after last time and all.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.  Kind of gave you the bum’s rush, didn’t I?”  Louis wants to say more but the other three are watching him so he just goes for a generic excuse.  “I had to get myself sorted, you know?”

Harry nods thoughtfully, like he’s processing every word.  “So you work around here or--?”

“No, I work from home.  I write jingles,” he adds for clarification.  I just did one that’s on heavy rotation now.  I’m sure you’ve heard it; plays on like every channel.”

Harry seems intrigued.  “How does it go?”

Louis clears his throat and then unleashes the jingle with gusto: “Keep your dishes white and your holidays bright with Dish-Right!”  When he finishes, he feels self-conscious.  He’s standing in the middle of Oxford Circus, singing about fairy liquid for crying out loud, but that’s not it.  His stomach’s in knots, and he suddenly realises that he wants Harry to like it, however lame it is. 

He wants Harry to like _him._

Harry face twists into the cutest expression.  Any faux exterior he was trying to project instantly melts away.  “You’re so talented!” he fawns.  “And of course I’ve heard it; it’s everywhere!”

Now Louis’ blushing.  “Ah, it’s just a paycheque, like, but you know.  It’s a start.  It’s hard to make it as a songwriter, but at least I can pay me bills in the meantime,” Louis shrugs, trying not to let on how chuffed he is that Harry appreciates what he does.  “So what do you do--besides sing my favourite carol, that is.”

“I write poetry,” Harry says shyly, licking his chapped, cherry lips, “for greeting cards.”  The cherub-faced boy has a gleam in his eye as he adds, “it’s hard to make it as a writer, but at least I can pay me bills in the meantime.”

Louis cracks a smile.  “Bet you write the really sappy ones.”

“Oh you have no idea,” Harry chuckles knowingly in a low, golden tone that’s not unlike the warm baritone of his singing voice.  Louis doubts that he could ever tire of that sound.  He bets he could listen to it on a daily basis for years and years and years.

And years.

“Hey, I was just thinking…,” Louis begins hesitantly.  “Maybe we could work on something together?”

Harry doesn’t seem put off by the idea, just slightly confused.  “You mean like a song?”

“Yes--I mean if you’re up for it and all,” Louis blushes.  He didn’t even know he could fucking blush this much.  “Since you write poetry and shit, I just thought that maybe we could collaborate.  It would be just for fun, of course, but we could, like, see where it goes….”

“Yeah,” Harry says intensely, green eyes flashing like Christmas bulbs on the blink.  “I’d like that.”  He puts a hand on Louis’ arm and suddenly Louis feels like he’s burning up despite the chill of the windy December day.  “I’d _love_ to see where this goes.”

Louis’ breath catches in his throat.  Somehow, he manages to nod when Harry suggests they continue the conversation at a nearby café over the grumbling protests of the rest of Harry’s merry carollers.  Louis can tell they’re not really mad though--especially when the blonde slaps Harry on the back and another throws Harry an encouraging wink.

A short while later, the pair are sharing a corner table at a cosy cafe, two mugs of steaming chai thawing their frozen hands.

“I put up a tree,” Louis bursts out after they’ve discussed their Christmas travelling plans.  It almost sounds like a boast and he’s not sure he meant for it to come out quite that way, but Harry lights up instantly anyway.  “It’s just a small one though,” he adds.

“That’s alright; size doesn’t matter,” Harry jokes and Louis doesn’t know what to do with himself.  

“Um, yeah.”  He’s pretty sure he’s sweating now, and he didn’t know that was possible with the current outside temperature.  He sits up taller in his chair.  “Anyway, I’m shit at decorating--maybe you could finish it off for me?” Louis proposes.

“The tree?” Harry questions.  “That your best offer?”

Louis bites his lip and tries not to black out.

The naughty elf chuckles.  “Yeah, of course I can help you out with your tree.  And you never know, maybe we’ll find something else I can help you out with.”

“Like a dodgy window that won’t close?”

“Something like that,” Harry smirks.

Louis plays along.  “Yeah, you’re good with your hands, aren’t you?”

“I’m even better with my mouth,” Harry says flirtatiously, and Louis has to bite back a moan.  “What?” Harry laughs, flicking his tongue out before taking a sip of his tea.  “I was referring to singing--what were _you_ thinking?”

Harry’s beating him at his own game, and it’s sort of unacceptable.  It’s also sort of incredible.  Even so, it’s time to take this down a notch; he doesn’t want to walk out of a central London café in broad daylight on Christmas Eve with a stiffy--even if it _is_ his birthday.

Louis’ fingers trace the wood grain on the table.  “I’m…er…not taking the train up North until tomorrow morning.  You?”

“Same.”

“So you want to come back to mine?” Louis offers, tugging at his collar.  Harry doesn’t say anything so Louis plays his last card, just in case.  “It’s my birthday, you know.”

“It is?”  Green eyes flash excitedly.  “That’s brilliant.  Feel like I should get you a present then.  What do you want?”

Louis smiles coyly.  “A well fit singing elf.”

“Think that can be arranged,” Harry snickers, letting his hand graze over Louis’ on the table.

The moment is perfect.  Then some coffeehouse version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” begins playing because of course it does. 

Harry notices straight off and glances nervously at him, an almost apologetic look on his face.  He looks miserably down at his nearly untouched chai.  “We could leave…?”

“Nah, fuckin love that song,” Louis swears and Harry’s mouth envelops into that dopey smile again.  “Sick tune that.”

And the funny thing is that it’s not a lie.  At this very moment, it’s Louis’ favourite song in the whole Goddamn world, and he’s pretty sure he could never get enough of it.

He’s also pretty sure he could never get enough of green eyes and curly hair.  Or that dopey smile.  _Especially_ that dopey smile.

It’s a theory he’s willing to test at any rate…starting right now.


End file.
